


Please Enjoy Your Stay (And Fill Out the Hospitality Card)

by rocketpool



Category: Justified, Justified/Leverage/White Collar, Leverage, White Collar
Genre: M/M, Multi, cross-posted from LJ, porntastic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/pseuds/rocketpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal gets in over his head, and there's a little bit of competition for who gets to save him. Thankfully, Neal's got ideas of his own. After all, what's a little sex between old friends?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Enjoy Your Stay (And Fill Out the Hospitality Card)

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://ravens-word.livejournal.com/profile)[**ravens_word**](http://ravens-word.livejournal.com/), who is made of starshine and awesome. It's partly her birthday this year, partly her birthday last year, partly for Christmas, and partly just cos. I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to finish, darlin', I hope you like it. ♥ Many thanks to [](http://canadiangoddess.livejournal.com/profile)[**canadiangoddess**](http://canadiangoddess.livejournal.com/) for the beta, all mistakes mine.

 

  
Art’s taken to muttering _biter_ when he thinks Raylan can’t hear him. Or maybe he knows Raylan can hear him and hopes that, one day, Raylan will take his meaning. Either way, it’s gotta be something pretty specific for Art to try and prevent him from doing what he’s gonna do, which is why Raylan hangs up before his boss can say anything any which way.

It’s more than a hunch that put him on this road, in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere, with the desert heat coming up off the asphalt like a mirage. Averted eyes, sentences only half spoken, but it’s enough. The FBI’s favorite art thief cum fugitive is in arm’s reach, trying to keep his head down between here and there, and walking straight into the path of dangerous men that don’t like him very much. Funny how that happens when you woo their daughter and walk away with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of jewelry and art.

Raylan growls when he reads the mile marker. He’s getting closer, dammit, but not close enough. And he’ll be walking in with his hat in his hands on account of no one having enough to pin on these guys to muster so much as a search warrant. His phone rings on the seat beside him, and he glances at it long enough to see it’s his boss again. Raylan reaches down and hits the ignore button, then turns his phone off.

“Sorry, about that. No signal.”

He checks the gas gauge — _fuck it_ — and pushes the pedal to the floor. The world is dust and wind and road for longer than he’s of a mind to consider, and then flowing up out of the asphalt like some kind of oasis there’s a bar. More of a roadhouse, he supposes (read: more trouble), with what looks like a two pump station off the catercorner and enough of a shop on the near side to make a truck feel homey. There’s no sign of life outside, which sets a cold roil in the pit of his stomach. A glance up at the windows tells him the best positions for a look out (or a sniper), but it seems clear.

Though hell, there’s probably enough bullets inside to make up for it.

Raylan parks before he’s close enough to warrant too much attention, yet still close enough for dragging out wounded if strictly necessary, and slowly gets out of the car. He makes sure he has what he needs - gun on his hip, badge on his belt, hat on his head… For just a moment he debates the phone, but figures if he’s the only one out here now, it can’t help much in any case.

He heads toward the entrance slow and easy —no reason to alarm anyone after all, and he’d rather he got warned than shot outright— and walks right in. It’s surprising. He’d have expected a guard on the door at least, but these guys must be pretty comfortable in their natural isolation. The guy behind the bar manages to notice him, blink, and aim a gun while Raylan’s eyes are adjusting to the interior lighting.

“Ain’t no call for that,” he says soothingly, as to a spooked horse. He doesn’t include the implicit _not yet_. His talking earns him the attention of the actual hitters, a cluster of men on the other side of the room that parts enough for him to catch a glimpse of one Neal Caffrey, handcuffed to a chair and looking a little worse for wear, though at least he ain’t bloody. Neal’s old mark —Aleister Woodrow, elitist socialite and head of the US branch of Woodrow Inc., not to mention allegedly head of his brother’s _real_ business in the US— steps through the crowd and it closes behind him.

“I think you have the wrong bar,” Woodrow says with a smile, slick enough to make Raylan want a shower.

Raylan smiles (alright, _smile_ is likely hyperbole, but it mimics a smile, with more threat to boot) and pushes his jacket back enough to show off his badge. “‘Fraid I got the right bar.”

Woodrow’s face freezes up, eyes getting colder as they flick to the badge, then back to Raylan’s face. “Officer. What _can_ I do for you? You’re intruding on a private function.”

“Well I do apologize, and I hate t’ruin your fun,” Raylan says and nods his head toward where Neal is, “but you gotta understand that’s my man there and you’re gonna hafta hand him over.” Woodrow’s smile falls away. He opens his mouth to argue but Raylan just cuts him off, hand sliding back toward his gun. “The man is a fugitive of the law, and as a US Marshal I am duty bound to bring him in. How about we don’t make this any more complicated than necessary, alright?”

Raylan has come to terms with this simple fact: things never go smooth. Woodrow gives him a half smile, lifting a hand, but Raylan takes it for the signal it is. Cover is scarce, but he puts down the men that raise their weapons fastest and manages to duck behind a tipped table with only a burning line along his cheek.

Thankfully, Raylan’s also already come to terms with the fact that Art’s gonna be pissed.  


~~~~~

The room settles into dust and creaking wood, and the quiet drip of broken liquor bottles. It reeks of blood and death, but that doesn’t concern Raylan much, considering he stands facing Woodrow, gun aimed steadily at the other man’s chest. Woodrow is sweating and shaking, and Raylan gets the feeling all he’s got to do to make him piss himself is say _boo_.

“I ain’t too keen on paperwork.” Raylan juts a chin out at the rest of the room. “I think I got enough here to keep me busy. If you think you can find it in yourself to give up on Mister Caffrey, I think we can have an understanding.” Woodrow just nods his head like an over eager child. “Then skedaddle. Go on, get.”

Raylan waits til the man is gone, the door slamming heavy behind him, before he turns his attention to Neal. Who smiles up at him like nothing in the world is the least bit out of place and, despite the split lip and bruises on his face, could almost make Raylan believe it too. The bastard’s already slipped his cuffs, dangling them from one finger before tossing them at a thug’s head.

“Well, well, if it isn’t United States Marshal Raylan Givens. It’s been a long time. Too long.” His eyes sparkle mischievously, and he lets Raylan help him up. “I see you haven’t given up the hat yet. You still have a white horse outside too?”  


> Raylan tips his hat back to better look down at the fool he’s just spread out on the floor, watching to make sure the way he reaches up to touch his lip ain’t cover for reaching for a weapon. Raylan tucks a thumb behind the badge on his belt and grins, an expression that’s more pleased with the outlet for violence than any actual happiness. The bastard glares up at him, spitting towards the pretty slip of a boy just behind Raylan, too fancy for a corner of the country like this.

> “Fag stole my savings,” the man says. “That God damn fucking fag—” He shuts up when Raylan raises an eyebrow at him, leaning forward like he might take it personal.

> “Way I see it, you’re just lookin’ for an excuse for wasting your cash on craps an’ lookin’ stupid when a smart Yankee kid shows y’up.” Raylan takes a very deliberate step forward, and rests his other hand just barely on his gun. It’s more show of force than strictly necessary for a US Marshal already getting in trouble for his reputation. Doesn’t take more than that for the bastard to scrabble off, though, so Raylan turns to the young man. “Y’alright, son?”

> The boy looks up at him, and the minute those bright blue eyes meet his Raylan realizes he’s not half as young as he’d assumed. The kid’s got delicate features, to be sure, a fact which makes Raylan want to muss him up and leave his eyes glazed over, dark hair and fair skin. Fair skin marred by what promises to be a black eye and darkening fingerprints on his throat. The kid smiles, a sheepish charm rolling off of him that makes Raylan want to distrust him and protect him all at once.

> “I’ll make it,” he says, his voice sheepish but just as fine as the rest of him. He reaches up with one hand, an artist’s hand, fingers long and clever looking, and Raylan can’t help but watch as he rubs at his throat a little. The kid waits another moment, like he’s waiting for something, but when Raylan just stares at him, he holds his hand out. “Neal. Neal Caffrey.”

> Raylan watches him a moment longer, until Neal’s cheeks tinge pink. “I think it might be wise if I take you into protective custody, Mister Caffrey. Might be for the best til you’re ready to head out of town. His ilk like travelin’ in packs.”

> Neal smiles at him, wide and bright with ideas of his own about what Raylan means by _protective custody_. It isn’t actually what Raylan had intended, but the kid lets Raylan lead him out by the arm, and actually manages to lean against him before sliding into Raylan’s truck. When he follows Raylan into his motel room, closing the door behind them, he leans back against it and smiles again. Smiles and catches Raylan by the belt loop, tugging.

> “Ain’t why—”

> “I’m aware of that, Marshall,” Neal says, his voice a little rough as he reaches with his other hand to pull at Raylan’s fly. As he tips his head just enough to look at him through his eyelashes, to expose his neck. “Unless I’ve misread your… interest.” He presses his knuckles against the zipper, making a pleased noise low in his throat when Raylan’s hardening cock is obvious. “But I don’t think I have.”

> Raylan looks down at him for a moment, considering. Neal shifts, lifting his hips away from the door, and Raylan doesn’t miss how Neal’s erection is just as obvious beneath the soft linen of his pants. Or the way Neal bites at his bottom lip, letting it drag out of his mouth, leaving it glistening in the dim yellow light of the room. And Raylan figures, given this isn’t anything official, and given the kid is… well, like _this_ …

> He gives up considering, gives up ethics, and figures they want what they want, no harm no foul. So he moves forward, hips first, pressing Neal back into the door before he claims the kid’s mouth. He can tell Neal’s expecting hard and gruff, the hard burn of adrenaline after a fight. But Raylan picks his battles, picks them and wins, and this? This requires a slow, easy start, no false bravado. It needs adrenaline all its own.

> He can feel it begin in Neal: the frustrated tug and lift on Raylan’s pants, fingers digging into his skin, his shoulders tensing, hips lifting like a plea to be answered. And then he opens, really _opens_ , to Raylan, panting like his breath is slipping away, and Neal fists a hand in Raylan’s shirt and holds on like he might slip away his own self. And Raylan just keeps kissing him, exploring his mouth, sucking lightly at Neal’s bottom lip.

> Neal whimpers, a soft, needy noise. Raylan relents a little, not much, a roll of the hips, sliding a hand along Neal’s side, tangling a hand in his hair. He pulls back just a little, just enough to let them breathe, and Neal would chase after his mouth if Raylan didn’t tug his hair. Neal closes his eyes and lets his head tip back, and Raylan smirks a little, makes him wait. Lets their breath hang between them, a warm expectation, its own kind of caress. Raylan brushes his lips along Neal’s jaw, feather light, teasing until he reaches the joint with his throat and nips. Neal whimpers, a little bolder now, and seems to remember that he’s holding on to Raylan’s shirt.

> He pulls at it now, blindly thumbing at the buttons and letting out a frustrated huff when he’s rewarded not with skin, but with Raylan’s undershirt. Raylan’s tempted to stop him, to pin him, but it’s been a while. It’s been long enough Raylan’s not keen on taking all night with just this. He leans back enough to give Neal room to get his hands on what he wants, but keeps his hand in the kid’s hair, keeps working his teeth down the line of Neal’s neck.

> Raylan groans when Neal finally gets his hands under fabric, dragging his fingers hard along Raylan’s spine and trying to push up the undershirt when that’s not enough. Neal slides back around and reaches up, twists a nipple, and Raylan bites him in retaliation, at the curve of his shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

> “Fuck!” Neal says, gasping. He shoves back, apparently intent on either stripping away Raylan’s shirt or shredding it. It’s almost a tussle now, all frustration and need, but it ain’t for dominance, not quite anyway. There’ll be bruises, some Raylan won’t be too keen on explaining, though he’s sure a couple will be waved off as “bar brawl” and left to that. Whatever he had on the dresser is now on the floor —and it’s a near miss that the television didn’t go tumbling after it all— and for just a moment Neal has him pinned and gets them both out of their shirts. Neal gets his hands on the top button of his pants just as Raylan pushes away from the furniture and tries to aim for the bed.

> How they don’t end up on the floor Raylan never would figure out.

> Hell, how he didn’t break his neck falling ass first into the piece of shit chair beside the bed, his pants down to his knees, he never could figure either. But Raylan has the wherewithal to keep him close and just off-balance enough to get the kid’s pants open. For all that Raylan’s the one in the open, he’s the one to get his hand around Neal’s cock, to get those linen pants gone. Neal’s got a hand in his hair, like he thinks he can push Raylan’s head lower and get his mouth wrapped around his cock instead of just Raylan’s hand.

> Raylan has better things in mind. “You best have lube and condoms, boy. Gonna need’m ‘fore the night’s through.” He presses his thumb slowly along the slit and rakes his fingers along the inside of Neal’s thigh in emphasis. It sufficiently short circuits whatever smart ass reply Neal was about to give him, and all that comes out of his mouth is a garble of noise. He gets in a few more strokes before the kid musters up the will to speak.

> “I, uh… _fuck_.” Neal pants a little, eyes closed. “No lube. Condom’s in back poc… pocket.” He licks his lips, eyes skipping over the room. They land on the remains of Raylan’s take out on the table, on the ball of butter in the plastic dish that he hadn’t used on his biscuits. “I’m sure we can find something…”

> The kid’s creative streak shouldn’t make Raylan harder, but it does. He has to remind himself that he has to let go of Neal, to let him step away long enough to fish the condom out of his pocket on the floor. Raylan takes the opportunity to shuck his own pants, or at least drop them to his ankles, and he strokes himself while he watches Neal move, all that pale skin and sleek muscles. That dark hair that Raylan could just grab and pull…

> So he does. Neal’s got the condom in one hand, still on one knee, and Raylan tangles his fingers in those curls and tugs just hard enough to bring Neal’s face toward his cock. Neal lets him, smirking a little as he glances up at him through thick lashes, blue eyes sparkling, and wraps his lips around the head, tongue sliding against him just so. Christ, it has been too long, a fact which Neal is suddenly keen to given the way he does it again, the way he takes more of Raylan into his mouth.

> The way his eyes hold Raylan’s when he starts to pull up just as slowly, starting to suck, well that could be enough to get Raylan to come right there. He bites his lip hard and pushes Neal’s head down again. Raylan doesn’t want to come like this, but the way Neal’s mouth feels, the way he uses his tongue... God but Neal could change his mind on the subject.

> Raylan’s got to stop himself, pulling Neal up. Slowly, though, and he relishes the way Neal licks his lips. His breath still tickles against wet skin when Neal brings up the condom —the very wrapper free condom, and when did he manage that— and slides it over his dick. Without ever glancing away from Raylan’s face. He wasn’t expecting that, and his hips rise of their own accord to push into that grip, fingers tightening in his hair again.

> Neal slides up, closer, head tipping to accommodate Raylan’s grip, pushing up from his knees, holding on to Raylan’s biceps for balance. He kisses up Raylan’s stomach, then leans up so he can straddle his thighs. Raylan widens his legs so Neal has to lean forward a little more and lets go of his hair. He grabs one of Neal’s wrists instead, stroking Neal’s cock again with the other. “Go on then.”

> He doesn’t let go while Neal reaches for the butter, instead keeps him steady, keeps him hard. Raylan doesn’t look while Neal slicks his fingers either, just watches his face. Just watches his expression change depending on how Raylan touches him, watches for when he slides a finger inside of himself. Raylan knows when he’s added a second, can see the moment Neal scissors or curls them instead of just pumping. He can see the moment Neal’s ready in his eyes, in the way his lips part. Raylan strokes him a little longer, then moves his hand to Neal’s thigh, urging him forward.

> Neal raises himself up, aligns Raylan’s cock, and slowly impales himself. His eyes flutter, head tipping forward so his hair falls in his face as he finds the balance between control and opening. He licks his lip and breathes and settles down a little more, his cock flushed and leaking and caught against Raylan’s belly.

> “Jesus,” Raylan growls, finally completely buried in him. He slides a hand up Neal’s side, almost petting, letting him adjust and relishing in the fine sheen of sweat already forming on Neal’s skin. A few more deep breaths and Neal reaches for himself, but Raylan stops him, catching his wrist. He takes hold of the other and holds both of them out a little from their sides, shifting his hips to move inside Neal. “No touching.”

> Raylan rolls his hips again as emphasis, and Neal swallows hard, just barely nodding. He moves Neal’s arms a little, making him lean back, changing the angle as he moves, almost thrusting. Neal shivers a little, biting his lip, and lifts himself, thighs tightening as he shifts his weight, sliding up. Raylan almost thinks he’s going to slide completely off when he pauses, tightening just a little, and then slides slowly back down. Neal doesn’t quite take him in completely before he’s rising up again.

> It’s a beautiful kind of torture, how slowly Neal is moving. For a while it’s enough just to breathe and watch the man fuck himself on Raylan’s cock. But only for a little while. The way Neal’s head falls back as he works, baring the long line of his throat, is too inviting, the way the muscles in his shoulders and arms twitch with the need to touch or control too tempting. He pushes Neal’s arms back, forcing him back, to slide off as Raylan leverages himself up only just enough to move from the chair to his knees on the floor.

> Raylan’s grip on his wrists pulls Neal down as well, guiding him down to the floor as Raylan crowds into him, nipping at whichever parts stay closest — hip bone, stomach, nipple, collar bone — even as Neal tries to stay sitting up, his hands planted on the floor behind him. Neal yields a little as Raylan presses against him, dropping to his elbows and spreading his legs a little farther to give Raylan a better angle.

> Raylan wastes no time pushing inside of him again, hard enough to make Neal’s eyes roll back in his head. He holds himself above Neal and draws himself out slowly, only to push inside again just as hard. He keeps this pace, relishing the way Neal starts to pant and whimper, the way he flushes with need. The way he tries to tighten his legs around Raylan’s waist, like he can either make him hurry up or pull him deeper.

> He must hit home because Neal gasps, his whole body arching, and Raylan repeats the motion. Neal moans obscenely, mouth falling open. “I reckon there’s somethin’ you want,” Raylan growls, hitting home again.

> “Please. Christ, just…” Neal tries to speak, tries desperately to beg, but Raylan steals his words with the next thrust, reducing him to unintelligible noises.

> Raylan knows that’s the best he’s gonna get, especially when he has no intention of stopping long enough for Neal to be coherent. He builds the pace steadily, thrusting in deep and hitting Neal’s prostate as often as he can. Neal’s back arches again, the whole line of him like a taught string when his head falls back, his moans getting louder, punctuating every thrust. And just like that the thread breaks and Neal bites his lip to keep from shouting, his arms almost giving out as his come sprays warm between them. Neal tightens around Raylan, blue eyes wide with want even now, and it doesn’t take much to pull Raylan after him, to make him bottom out hard and cussing.

  


“Doubt you’d call it white.” Raylan takes a moment to check his hat while Neal just raises an eyebrow at him. At least all he does is sigh and hold his hands out when Raylan holds out his own set of cuffs. “Wasn’t lyin’ when I said I had to bring you in.”

“I suppose some things never change.” Neal’s put that smile of his back in place. It always did bother Raylan how much that sparkle in Neal’s eye never bothers him…  


~~~~~

Eliot Spencer hates anonymous tips. For one thing, it all but _screams_ trap. The only problem is, of course, when the tip happens to involve someone he gives two shits about. The word _friend_ might be a little strong, if only given their chosen professions, but nonetheless he’s got a soft spot for the kid.  


> Neal Caffrey, a smile that needs no introduction, not with the reputation he’s managed to reel in with that job in Copenhagen.

> Even if Eliot already knows with all too much certainty that the kid hasn’t got the music box. Hell, it makes it that much more impressive, and it’s gotten the kid the room he needs to actually pull off jobs. Good ones, too, though it’s a cryin’ shame he’s stayin’ put in New York. That Fed’s tight enough on his trail to catch up eventually, likely sooner than later.

> “I suppose you’re here to steal the antiquities I just worked so hard to acquire?” Eliot smiles politely in response; he has his own reputation, after all, and he isn’t about to rise to bait like that. It makes Caffrey smile a little more and step closer, though not close enough to be threatening. No, no, the kid’s definitely going for seductive. “Well, I’ve already gotten what I want out of it. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to… convince me.”

> Strike that, _is_ seductive. Eliot likes the way Neal’s eyes widen, the way he gasps a little, because he hadn’t been able to anticipate just how quickly Eliot could move, how easily Eliot would pin him. It’s the first completely honest part of their interaction so far. Well, that and Neal’s apparent attraction to him, if the hard line of his cock in those pretty linen pants is any indication.

> “Doubt you need any convincing,” Eliot purrs, smirking at the way Neal’s eyes flutter like the rumble of it goes straight to his dick. “But I could certainly show you my appreciation…”

  


That spot goes cold and angry when he finds what’s left of the roadhouse. The place is a mess, but there’s no sign of Neal and little to say who it was that took him. A small comfort, maybe, but Eliot doesn’t like the way the odds look, not when it seems like only one or two people killed a whole room of armed bodyguards. He scrubs a hand over his face and forces himself to focus, to look for clues, for tracks.

It’s what he does best.

The tracks in the dirt outside don’t do much more than point Eliot the right direction down the highway, but it’s a start. With a few quick calls —and barely managing avoiding dragging the whole team into this, damn them and their bleeding hearts— he’s narrowed the possible immediate destinations down to one closed motel (good for torture and body dumping, and with a history of both) and one shitty one that’s up and running. It’s those, or whoever grabbed Caffrey has decided to keep driving, and Eliot’s going to have to call in another favor to put a pin on them.

Eliot hits the run down piece of shit first. It’s quiet as the grave, which might worry him, except there’s no sign anyone’s actually set foot near the place in at least a week. He tries to tell himself it’s gotta count for something. He back tracks and presses on down the highway, risking speed over mileage, trying to reach the next motel before it gets too much later, before it’s just too late.

The place has an El Camino by the office that looks like it’s seen better decades and a lone car —obviously a rental— sitting three quarters of the way down the building all by itself. The building is all one floor, the pool’s empty, and it looks like one good sandstorm would bring it down like a house of cards. It takes ten minutes for Eliot to circle around it to his satisfaction, ensuring it’s not an ambush, and another ten to make sure they’re actually in the room it looks like they’re in. He can hear the buzz of voices, including one he gives a seventy-five percent likelihood of being Neal. There’s a good (if not quite as good) chance that there’s only one person in there with him.

Eliot weighs the odds and waits til the noise is where he wants it. He kicks the door in, taking in the piece of shit motel room in the scant time he has. Neal’s on the bed, one hand cuffed to the headboard. There’s only one thug in the room, tall, and rallying from the surprise and impact of the door to come around swinging. Eliot blocks, punches, twists, but the guy still gets a glancing blow in and tries to sweep his legs.

“Stop it!” Neal shouts, but the other guy is twisting free. Eliot sees an opening and gets a hit in, sending the other guy staggering back a few steps. And then Neal is between them, his hands held up at the both of them, cuff dangling loose on the right, and wide eyed with… worry? “ _Both_ of you, _stop_! Jesus Christ…”

The thug stands, touching his face like it’s tender (damn well ought’a be) and—

“Raylan? Fuck, Raylan Givens?”  


> Eliot’s not too keen on being stuck with a federal Marshal, but he supposes given the circumstances it could be worse. Not that it gets too much worse than highly skilled thieves funding home grown terrorism who are more than willing to feed you to their pigs out in the mountains, except maybe them catching you at stealing their stolen goods back. The whole thing was a cluster fuck of bad intel from the get go.

> Eliot would’ve been free and clear of this whole mess already (and likely half way back to kicking Bartowski’s ass for setting him on to this job) except for the Fed. As much as this Givens guy has a nose for trouble, he’s good in a fight; good enough they might both get out of this alive by more than just the skin of their teeth. Assuming they can make it out of the woods, at least.

> “Y’ain’t half bad stuck in the hills,” the Fed says, now that it’s quiet and they’re looking for some place to bunk up for the night. “Gotta admit, I prob’ly wouldn’t have made it so far without you.”

> Eliot huffs a little in something close to a laugh. “That your backwards way of sayin’ thanks, or a polite way of askin’ me who I am?”

> “Little of both, I suppose.” Eliot glances at him sideways to catch him grinning a little, but there’s a sense of recognition in his expression. “I’ve got my guesses. Given the current situation, though, it’d hardly be civilized to go making accusations. Figure I owe you a favor.”

> “Spencer,” he says after a long moment considering. It’s starting to get dark and he still hasn’t found something to his satisfaction.

> “Ah. Eliot.” The way Givens drawls the word sends a shiver up his spine. “I’d have put money on it bein’ you. Ain’t a lotta men in your line of work that’d stick their neck out for a fine officer of the law like myself.”

> Eliot can’t hold back the snort of amusement, but he manages not to make an ass of himself by making some awkward comment about how fine Givens’ neck (or ass, or hands) is very fine indeed. It’s a near thing, though. “Don’t try and make me out to be a good man. Truth is, you’re just as likely to save my sorry ass. Hell, you probably already did.” He pauses for a moment for something that might work as cover, but if they get spotted it’s not nearly defensible enough.

> “That your backwards way of sayin’ thanks, or a polite way of comin’ on to me?”

> Eliot doesn’t stop walking and he doesn’t respond, not verbally, but he’s pretty sure that’s more than enough of an answer, what with the way Givens chuckles. It’s low and throaty and goes straight to parts of himself that really shouldn’t be distracting him just now. “Ain’t gonna matter one way or another if we don’t find someplace to hunker down til dawn.”

> Givens frowns. “I was under the impression we were headed straight out of the hills. The dark would buy us time and maneuverability.”

> “And here I wouldn’t figure a fancy Marshall like you for bein’ much use in the woods, let alone at night.”

> “Don’ let the suit coat fool ya son.” Givens gestures south. “Spent my youth a few hills that way. Nearly never left the coal mine.”

> Eliot tries not to picture Raylan covered in sweat and soot, he does. He clears his throat and pauses to rub a hand over his face, making like he’s considering their options for getting down the mountain. _Christ, it sounds like some kind of twisted metaphor._ “You familiar with this one in particular?”

> “Not as such, but you’ve done a fair job so far. Hell, I even think we’ve lost them. Problem being, I know _them_. Come grey morning light they’ll have the dogs on us like they’re routin’ out wild hogs.” Givens pauses and tips his head thoughtfully, casting his face into deeper shadows. Darkness is settling in close now, and Eliot’s starting to be glad it’s a clear night. Seeing will be hard already, even with the penlight tucked into his boot. “We can always take a quick break. Strategize a little.”

> Eliot shakes his head. “Unless you know anything we can use, a stream or—” He stops short as Givens crowds into him, all too aware of how unsure his footing is as the man takes up all his space. If he’d been another man he might have jumped when his back hit the tree, and he has no doubt if he tried he’d have Givens on the ground and unarmed ( _and dead_ ) in a heartbeat. But he’s hard, and the man hasn’t even touched him.

> There’s a moment, barely more than a couple ragged breaths, where Givens seems to wait for Eliot to object and maybe punch him. There’s just a moment, and Givens is taking up whatever of Eliot’s spaces is left, tugging his shirt from his pants and pulling at his belt. And kissing him. It’s not as rough as Eliot was expecting, though every bit as greedy. Givens’s lips are just soft enough to be pleasant, his hands just calloused enough to send shivers up Eliot’s spine when they finally find skin.

> The buttons on the Marshall’s shirt are a hassle, so far as Eliot’s concerned. If they’re going to do this (if, shit, they are, whether they oughtta or not) it needs to be fast and quiet, and buttons aren’t fast and sure as hell don’t inspire quiet. Eliot growls and pops the last few open enough to slide his hand inside as he pleases, raking one hand up as the other fiddles with Givens’s belt, fighting with leather and metal until Givens chuckles again and helps him out. Between the two of them they manage to push their pants out of the way, to their knees.

> Eliot groans just at being exposed, the air cool against his cock and thighs except where the body heat rolls off Givens and straight under his skin. They should be running, or at least hiding, but Givens is pushing his hands out of the way, pressing his hands against the tree, and pressing closer. Givens wraps a hand around him, around them both, stroking lightly.

> “The things I’d do to you if I had the time,” Givens says, voice low and drawn out in a breathy drawl, his words hot breath against Eliot’s ear. “Throw you down in the dirt and the leaves and fuck you into the earth. Or maybe cuff you to a tree.” He twists his hand around him, tightening just so, and any retort Eliot would have made is dissolved into a guttural noise. “Let the bark mark up your back and shoulders with every thrust.”

> “Fuck.” It’s all Eliot can manage, his hips jerking.

> “If we had time, surely.” Givens plays his fingers along their cocks, tugging a little harder now, his free hand digging hard into Eliot’s hip. “As it is maybe those boys ain’t as far behind as we thought. Bad enough bein’ caught, and with our pants down. Gettin’ caught with my cock up your ass, as they come bearin’ down the hill, guns drawn…”

> The hot coil in Eliot’s belly builds, faster than he wants, not as fast as he needs. Givens’s words go straight to his dick, riding the rasp of Givens’s voice, vibrating between them, and Eliot digs his fingers into the tree. But Given’s gives first, coming as he bites into Eliot’s shoulder to keep from crying out. It doesn’t take much more than that to bring Eliot along after, and he couldn’t have held back the sound he makes even if he’d had the mind to, their come spilling hot and slick between them.

> “Well,” Givens says, smirking a little as he pulls back. “Can’t say as I thought far enough ahead.” He slides his thumb into his mouth, sucking away the strings of come and giving Eliot a look like he ain’t quite done. “It seems we need to clean up a little…”

  


Raylan blinks and narrows his eyes. “Well I’ll be damned. Eliot Spencer.” He sounds like he’s not exactly sure where Eliot stands on things.

Eliot supposes he can’t blame him, and he shakes his head. “That explains the mess at the roadhouse up the way. And here I’d assumed the worst.” He glances over at Neal, who looks relieved, despite the blush tingeing his cheeks. “I take it y’all know each other.”

“You could say that,” Neal says at the same time as Raylan growls out, “Course, and I’m takin’ his sorry ass into protective custody. Assumin’ he stops pickin’ through his damn cuffs…”  


~~~~~

Neal runs a hand through his hair. His free hand, anyway, his off hand at that, which was the only thing Eliot and Raylan agreed about as soon as they’d established that neither of them were a threat to Neal’s own continued well being. He lifts the hand attached to the chair and eyes the handcuffs.

The pair of them know him too well, because they glare at him simultaneously, and Neal lifts both hands (more or less) appeasingly, trying to look innocent. Not that either the Marshall or the retrieval specialist believe his innocence for a second, oh no, of course not. But they go back to bickering like an old married couple, pacing around the tiny motel room like it will somehow resolve who gets to take Neal where.

“You could just let me go on recognizance,” Neal tries, without much hope. “I am capable of taking care of myself.” Except for the whole Woodrow thing, of course, but he doesn’t plan on mentioning that.

“Shut up,” they growl out in unison. Neal sighs and watches them. He’s not as frightened by that as other people should be. At least, not with Raylan’s hands far from his gun and Eliot on the other side of the room.

“He’s in a heap o’trouble already,” Raylan’s saying. “And I got the FBI from New York breathin’ down my neck about all the charges he’s earned himself. At least in prison he ain’t earned any ire.”

“Right. Cos a man like him will do _so well_ in prison,” Eliot scoffs. It doesn’t take a genius to catch the “prison bitch” vibe. Neal likes to think he could talk his way out of that.

“Knowin’ his silver tongue he’ll have a pretty little cell all his own —and by little, I mean large enough for three men twice your size— with silk sheets and wine brought daily by a hand picked guard.”

Neal decides he’s going to be flattered by that. And also that this would be the perfect time to grab some ice. He’s thirsty and, as one small glass earlier already proved, the “cold” water here is barely tepid. He hadn’t thought that something as simple as water could taste… well, stale. There was a time in his life when he would have been satisfied by that. Of course, back then he wouldn’t have expected anyone to come looking for him at a time like this.

It takes some time to move slowly enough that he doesn’t attract attention. Especially since he can’t particularly look at what he’s doing, and he’s stuck using his back up pick. He works at looking casual —bored but not entirely disinterested is more difficult than it sounds— and works the lock by feel.

When the cuff around his wrist finally _clicks_ he freezes, sure that they’ve heard it. But they’ve gotten loud, now, and Neal has to wonder if they’ll resort to fisticuffs. They haven’t quite gotten to shoving, and shoving can go a number of different directions, at least at first. Neal could go without the bloodletting, to be honest, and he’s got a few ideas for how to get them to work off that adrenaline and buy him enough time to get… well. Anywhere.

There’s no easing into that, though, not yet. They’d turn all the anger onto him, without any of the benefits, if he even breathed the suggestion right now. And now they’re in each other’s faces, all growls and anger.

Perfect time to stand up, right?

Neal’s actually expecting to maybe get punched for it, but they don’t even notice. He decides to be complemented by that too, and isn’t pouting even a little. Not that they’d notice right now anyway. He braves just opening the door and walking out, turning the handle so it won’t clatter and finding just the right spot to keep the door from swinging open without really being closed. Neal stands there for a moment, listening to the anger inside, and just shakes his head.

Neal glances sideways at the truck and rental car. He could probably just leave right now, if he wanted.

But where’s the fun in that?  


~~~~~

Neal shoulders his way back into the room, juggling a tiny bucket full of ice in each hand. Technically each room should only have one, he’s sure, but he liberated them from the maid’s cart near the office. He’s already got an innocent expression in place. Which is a good thing, because he finds himself face to face with two very unhappy, very muscular men waiting for him inside.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’, son?” Eliot demands. His arms are crossed over his chest, but a quick glance between him and Raylan makes Neal think that maybe there was another punch or two thrown while he was absent.

He does the only thing he can do, and holds up the buckets of ice. “I figured you two would need it. It was getting a little hot in here, after all. Besides, have you tried drinking the—” Neal trails off when Eliot grabs one of the buckets from him, shaking it a little before he’s satisfied there’s only ice inside. “It seems a little silly sneaking something in. Considering I could have just left.”

“An’ we’d both be hot on your heels,” Raylan mutters. “I told you he’s just waiting for the opportune moment.”

“Opportune my ass, he’s up to something.”

Neal can’t help but grin at that. “I’m not allowed to just enjoy your company?” He knew it was the wrong thing to say, from a certain point of view, but what it achieves is the other bucket of ice being taken away from him and Eliot on one side with Raylan on the other. Neal pretends to struggle, just a little, just enough. Their grip tightens and they pull him backward toward the bed, pulling and lifting until he’s on his back in the middle of the bed. He should have seen the cuffs coming, really, but Neal’s confident he can work with that. “Oh come on,” he says with a pout, back arching and legs spreading just enough to be suggestive.

Eliot grunts, not an unhappy sound, and when he straightens Neal doesn’t miss the way Eliot’s pants have begun to bulge. Raylan chuckles a little. He stands more slowly, fingers dragging down Neal’s stomach to the top of his pants. Neal shifts his hips up in response, glad for once that his light linen pants did little to hide how he felt about the situation.

“Mm-hmm,” Raylan says, his voice a little more gravelly despite his amusement. “I’d say he’s _up_ alright.”

“You serious?” Eliot asks and licks his lips, eyes sliding sideways to take in Raylan. Neal can’t tell if Eliot means what he wants Eliot to mean or if he just hates the bad joke as much as Neal does. Raylan shrugs a little, a motion that Neal is frustrated to discover he doesn’t know how to interpret either. Eliot’s eyes turn back to Neal, and Neal can’t help the way his breath catches and his hips hitch up again at that expression. “I guess ain’t anybody leaving tonight…”

“Be a long drive through th’dark anyhow,” Raylan adds. “No use risking falling asleep at the wheel.”

“Or giving him an inch to escape with.” Eliot smirks a little now. “Better to keep him where we can both keep an eye on’m.”

Raylan hums in agreement, taking a step backward, his fingers trailing down Neal’s leg until he gets to his shoes. He unlaces them, taking his time as he watches Eliot pull his own shirt off and begin to unbutton Neal’s shirt, working from the bottom up. When Eliot’s only worked his way a third of the way up, he decides to straddle Neal’s legs and lean down; every button undone, every new measure of skin revealed gives Eliot a chance to tease him with lips or teeth or the barest tickle of hair.

Neal bites his lip. He wants this as much as they do, but he can’t afford to over sell it. He lets his breathing shudder as Eliot bites lightly just below his nipple, but he holds back the moan as their crotches press together for just a moment. Neal tugs on the cuffs without realizing it, earning himself a breathy chuckle against his skin, and he has to remind himself not to pick his cuffs too soon.

By the time Eliot starts kissing him, he’s not doing too much more thinking anyway. He’s vaguely aware of Eliot pulling at his belt one handed, and that Raylan must be pulling at Eliot’s belt too. Eliot pulls back a little, panting, and not just because he’s finally gotten his hand inside Neal’s pants. Neal can see Raylan smirking over Eliot’s shoulder before he realizes he can feel the back of Raylan’s hand as he strokes Eliot’s cock.

“Fuck,” Neal hisses.

“Well that is what I had in mind,” Raylan says, doing something that makes Eliot groan.

“Got too many clothes for that, hoss,” Eliot manages after a moment, and reluctantly sits up. If Neal whimpers when Eliot’s cock brushes against him, no one says anything. They’re too busy pulling his pants down. He lifts his ass to make it easier on them, and for a moment the stray thought crosses his mind that honestly, there’s no way to do that provocatively. Not like the way Eliot’s turned his attention to Raylan’s shirt, and his belt, playing his fingers across Raylan’s skin, teasing as he lets his lips ghost over Raylan’s throat.

Raylan lets him, panting, his head tipping back when Eliot finally gets around to his dick. He obviously pays no attention to the way Eliot pushes his shirt off, or his pants down, not with the way Eliot’s fingers curl around him. Neal licks his lips and shifts a little, torn between annoyance that he’s been forgotten and enjoying what he’s watching. He wants to touch himself, to touch them, especially as Eliot slides to his knees.

Any thoughts about just picking his cuffs now slip away. Neal is mesmerized by the way Eliot moves, smooth and predatory, tongue tracing tantalizing patterns across Raylan’s abdomen before he licks a slow stripe along Raylan’s cock. Raylan rocks his hips forward, tangling a hand in Eliot’s hair like it’s going to do any good getting the man to wrap his lips around his cock. Eliot licks, nips, taking his time, and only a sly glance sideways makes Neal wonder if he’s doing it for show.

Neal picks his cuffs without another thought when Eliot finally does slide Raylan’s cock into his mouth, one hand cradling Raylan’s balls and the other holding him steady. For a long moment Neal just strokes himself, somewhere between wanting to get off like this and fucking them both, watching as Eliot bobs his head, working Raylan a little deeper, his throat obvious working.

Neal never was very good with patience.

He slides off the bed as gracefully as he can manage and tosses his shirt somewhere to the left before interjecting himself. Neal barely has time to brush his lips along Raylan’s shoulder before the man twists just enough to settle his free hand against the small of Neal’s back, rooting him into place while he claims Neal’s mouth. He can feel the flutter of Eliot’s hair against his cock and thighs as the man continues to suck Raylan’s cock, riling him up, driving him higher.

Only to take Neal by surprise when he pulls away from Raylan, turns, and takes Neal into his mouth instead. Raylan’s hand is still tangled in Eliot’s hair, his hips echoing the motion while Eliot strokes him. A low moan bubbles up out of Neal, which catches in a whimper when Raylan nips lightly at the joint of his jaw and throat. Neal just rides the pleasure a while, hips bucking when Eliot does that thing with his tongue just as Raylan slides his finger against his hole.

He still doesn’t want to come like this, and he has to muster the focus to pull Eliot from his knees. Of course, Eliot’s got ideas of his own, and the pair of them fall back on the bed, tussling for control as they kiss and touch. It’s only luck that lands Neal on top (except, perhaps, a strategic retreat on Eliot’s part), straddling Eliot’s thighs and pinning his wrists out against the bed.

Neal grins down at him, pleased with himself, with the expression on Eliot’s face as Neal rocks himself, pressing them together as he slowly moves himself farther down Eliot’s body. At last he can curl downward, his hair falling in his eyes as he licks teasingly around the base of Eliot’s cock. His own is trapped against Eliot’s legs, hot and needy, sensitive to every time Eliot shifts and twitches. He’s close, closer than he’d like, but he can’t ride Eliot just yet.

“Shit,” Eliot growls, and it’s the only warning Neal gets for the _cold_.

It’s shocking, and he jerks, but Eliot must have seen what Raylan was going to do because he’s got Neal’s wrists now, and Raylan’s got his hips. The ice is frigid against the base of his spine, and already starting to melt, sending cold drops and rivulets down this thighs and ass. Still, he knows this isn’t the only thing the Marshall will have in mind, and it’s not much longer before he feels some of the ice being pushed slowly up his spine.

It distracts a little from the feeling of Raylan’s other hand sliding along the crack of his ass, fingers playing against his hole again, slowly working him. The ice is between his shoulders now, dripping down on to Eliot and making him hiss. Neal lets his head droop and remembers to breathe, thrusting lightly, uselessly, trying for friction somewhere.

He wouldn’t have told you that what he needed was for Raylan to slide an ice cube inside of him.

Neal comes hard enough to make his vision swim, and the warmth of it feels hot in comparison to the ice. He shivers a little, partly from the cold, and partly from a new bout of desire. When he finally slides over to lay on his side beside Eliot, Raylan all but takes his place, opening Eliot instead of riding him. He moves to where he can kiss Eliot, watching down the length of their bodies as Raylan works into him, moving faster, Eliot’s cock bobbing and leaking between them. There’s the wet glisten of what’s left of the ice, and the glisten of Neal’s come spread between them.

It’s not much longer before Eliot’s orgasm claims him, cussing and groaning, Raylan still pounding into him until at last he follows after. Neal grins, getting up to finally get himself that glass of water.

“Not bad for round one.” After all, the night is still too young.  


~~~~~

Eliot’s not sure what wakes him, but once he’s awake it’s the sunshine peeking through the ratty curtains that really brings him around. He’s a little stiff and more than a little willing to go back to sleep, so for a long while he just lays there on his stomach, one arm up over his head, listening to Raylan snore.

Listening to Raylan… but not Neal.

He jerks, trying to sit up or roll over, but his arm doesn’t move much and he just ends up on his face again. Raylan yelps a little and growls. Eliot doesn’t like how much he feels more than sees Raylan try to get up, same as Eliot and with as little success.

“We’re cuffed,” Raylan huffs, in obvious need of whiskey or coffee. Or both. “Son of a…”

“What’d I say?” Eliot growls. “The pretty bastard is up to something?” Raylan just grunts at him in response.

Now that they’ve got their act together, sitting up is significantly easier, albeit kind of a production. And maybe a little awkward, considering their nudity. A quick scan around the room confirms Eliot’s assumption — Neal is gone. What’s more, Neal was kind enough to fold their clothes with their phones on top.

And leave them neatly on the dresser beside the television.

On the other side of the room.

“Son of a bitch,” Raylan mutters. He scrubs his free hand over his face, pressing the heel of it against his eyes. “Left us a note too.” Raylan gestures vaguely to the small table by the window, and when Eliot turns to look, he groans.

On the far side of the table the cardboard hospitality card is folded in half and in Neal’s delicate scrawl it says _I’m sorry_. Leaning against it, like some kind of punctuation mark and absolutely a taunt, is the key to the handcuffs. “Kid don’t make shit easy.”

Raylan huffs out a laugh. “Y’realize we’re gonna hafta unscrew the damn headboard?” He tugs a little at the cuffs, absently.

Eliot twists to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “With what, exactly?” Raylan opens and closes his mouth, looking for words, or better, an answer. “Uh-huh.” Eliot scratches his head with his free hand and considers their options. They could try simply _breaking_ the headboard, or at least that particular segment; it’s wood, and would only be a matter of effort. He’s pretty sure the bed can’t move. (They’d have figured that out by now, wouldn’t they?) “I might be able to grab the chair with my foot.”

Raylan makes a face at him like he definitely ain’t awake enough for this. “You wanna unscrew the headboard with a chair?”

Eliot sighs. Aside from her absolute preternatural gift with handcuffs (seriously, Eliot doesn’t wanna think about it) which would’ve been particularly useful just now, Parker would have known what he meant. “Nope. Pretty sure I can use it t’drag over the table though.”

“Right.” Raylan nods. “There’s not gonna be a chance in hell of—”

“Hah. Long gone.”

Raylan tugs on his end of the handcuffs again, giving Eliot a crooked grin. “In that case…”

Eliot can’t help laughing, but hell. Who’s he to turn down making the best of a situation?  



End file.
